The Wistful Witness
The hand of Sergeant Elias Thorne, stiff with the cold and the mud of the Aisne, gripped the iron compass in his pocket until the metal bit into his palm, a sharp, familiar pain that grounded him in the chaos of the barrage. It was November 1918, the war’s final, grinding weeks, and the air tasted of sulfur and wet earth, a thick, cloying damp that seeped through his wool tunic and settled in...
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